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Reel 4: February 15, 1954/Transcript
This is the official transcript for the episode which can also be accessed for free at'' patreon.com/withinthewires''Amy I’ve broken my umbrella. It’s so windy today, and my umbrella is broken. I’ve had it for five years, which is a long time to have an umbrella, I supposed. Maybe you never really own an umbrella. The come into your life for a while - maybe you buy them, maybe you find them abandoned on a train - and then they go. Maybe you break them, maybe you abandon them on a train. Anyway, I really liked this one and I’m annoyed at myself for subjecting it to all this wind. My fault really. But it was really very nice. Such a nice shade of green. # # # Amy, take a letter to the Secretary. February 15, 1954 Dear Secretary Ramadoss, (Ah fuck, how do I write this?) Dear Secretary Ramadoss, Dear Secretary Ramadoss, I might have been a touch hasty in my last conversation. (touch hasty. who talks like that?) I might have jumped the gun. (start over) I would like to discuss further my previous plan regarding Karen Roberts. (Amy. Add this before that first sentence.) Thank you again Madam Secretary for your time and attention to last fall’s press leak (should I say autumn? I think Vishwathi says “autumn.” change that.) As always, your presence is a… mollifying influence, and our projects in Washington are back on track with full public and Council support. I do not know how you managed this so effortlessly, but I am grateful. However.... dot dot same as before paragraph My estimate that opposition to Roberts would strengthen might be correct, but at the current pace, not for a long time. She's actually quite popular in Europe. Not just with the people, but her staff. I do not believe passivity will work. We must (Amy, I'm not sure how to word this in a letter. I don't want to write anything incriminating. (Fuck it. If they’re after me they’ll probably get these tapes. If we’re going down, we’re going down. Right? Unless you’re burning these tapes. No don’t burn them. That’s even more damning.) I have an investigator (No. Colleague.) named Leena Mäkinen - I believe I mentioned her to you before - inside the Western European office, tailing Roberts, rifling through her trash, talking to other staff, sending me notes, but unless you want to know how often Karen blows her nose, this is useless. We need physical documentation. Specifically, I want to know about off-book military budgets. I have suggestive reports (parentheses) (just hearsay, but I trust Leena’s intuition and analysis completely) (close parentheses) telling me she's funneling money into an army in Western Europe. A militia. Maybe a police force. I don't know. But regionalities don't fucking get armies goddammit. (Amy.) My understanding of the Demilitarization Act of 1950, regionalities cannot fund, arm, or organize any kind of military force. That is ordered only by the Societal Council, and requires a unanimous vote. If we could get journalists to exhibit the same fury over illegal armament as they do over tiny bureaucratic offices in old buildings or nothing statistical research on a couple of distributors in Vancouver, then we could get Roberts removed from her post. Furthermore, and I would like to stress that this is merely conjecture… educated conjecture… but I believe Roberts has infiltrated.... undermined our... (um. Amy, let's discuss this section over lunch. I'm not sure I want it in this letter. Leena told me that a man named Daniel Lindström, after being imprisoned in Copenhagen for multiple gun possessions was found dead in his cell. Leena said he had told investigators that he purchased his stockpile from a man named Matthew Forsberg, who is employed by KR Development - he works in their new Gothenberg factory. Conjecture, right? We can’t move on this, right? I don’t know. make reservations at noon for 2 at The Walnut Room. I want your thoughts.) My staff and I are putting together a full proposal for investigation, which I would like to present to you at our quarterly on April 1. In the meantime, however, I do not think it is the best use of our time to continue our press campaign against Roberts. She seems impervious to criticism, or worse, her supporters seem impervious to it. (Amy. delete Leena Mäkinen's name from this letter. I don’t want to... Just say “Contact”) My contact in the Western European Trade Offices can give me partial reports, but I need security support for this insider. If she is found out, this could point back to our offices, and as you well know, the news has not been kind to North America this month. Also, it is not strictly speaking in the remit of this office to be investigating other government employees. Obviously, in this case it is justified - I know there is something going on with Roberts, but all the evidence I have is anecdotal - I don’t have enough to submit her for formal review. But more importantly, like you, I value loyalty and protection of employees. I do not wish for our agent.... staff member to be imprisoned or detained in any way. But I need this person to complete a full reconnaissance.... a full report into potential militarization. I will wait to hear from you before proceeding. Sincerely, Michael Witten North America # # # Amy, use the fake Birmingham Unified Insurance Letterhead for this one. To Leena Mäkinen, Notice of Rate Increase We are notifying you of a rate increase for your homeowners liability and personal effects policy. The new rate is scheduled to begin on March 1, 1954, and will be in place for 12 months. The following coverages are included in the current rate, and will be continued through 1955: (bulleted list) personal injury liability fire/water damage theft smoke natural disasters A separate letter will follow updating new coverages. Should you have any questions, please write to us at 185 12th St Unit 754-B, Birmingham, Western Europe, Postal Code 111-82-D3. Sincerely, (Amy, use whatever fake name we always use on these. I forget. Also double check the postal code. I didn't match it up to the cipher document.) # # # Amy. Letter. February 15, 1954 Bernice Jones, Minister for Culture, North American Region Dear Bernice, It was great to see you here in Chicago. I’m sorry our weather was not more forgiving. The lake is the most beautiful coast in North America (apologies to your Gulf) when it is warm and calm. I would have liked to have taken you sailing. Our neighbor Ramya has a 28-foot boat. Maybe next summer. I apologize for involving you in this London mess. I’m glad we returned your performers safely home. You’re very kind for understanding and even footing some of the blame for the controversial play, but it was my idea from the start. Most of the blame could be placed at the feet of the conservatives in the Oslo office for lack of security. I’m even hearing that they helped organize the demonstrations against your artists, but at best, they allowed them to go unchecked. Ultimately, this is my fault. In trying to spread artistry to the region that needs it the most, I manipulated your cultural offices in a political game. I’m sorry. You’re a good friend to me, and I don’t want to spoil that. I will use better judgment in future endeavors. After our conversation last week, I felt better about where you and I stand, and I hope to work together in the future. If nothing else, Vivi and I would love to have you and Miguel back here when the sun returns. By the way, I never told you how Vivi and I met. You asked, but the thunderstorms cut us off as we had to clear inside and take shelter from the tornadoes. I don’t remember ever having tornadoes this late in the year. The world is changing more than we can even understand. When I was 20, I was working for a bank in South Sioux City. I had a 2 mile walk to work. You thought fall in Chicago was bleak. Winters in Nebraska are brutal. There’s nothing there to block the snow, and the wind. I couldn’t afford a car, and besides, I didn’t know of a single filling station near me. A bicycle wouldn’t protect me from the elements, but it would certainly shorten my time exposed to them. The people who had bikes weren’t selling. I checked want ads every day, but not much was there. One afternoon, about halfway between my residence and work, I saw a woman outside a deli leaning her bike against a street sign. She was beautiful, a cloud of dark hair and big round cheeks, broad shoulders. She was wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And on the front pocket she had pinned a yellow lilac blossom. The fragrance met me from almost 20 feet away. It smelled of burnt butter and black pepper and molasses. I approached her and asked her if she was willing to sell her bicycle. I forgot that I even wanted a bike. I just wanted to talk to her. The first thing I heard her say was “this thing can fuck off.” Her chain had broken, and the gear looked bent. I noticed her knuckles were bleeding. “Are you ok?” I almost touched her hand, but stopped, not wanting to be forward with a stranger. But she just put her fingers in my palms and declared. “This pile of shit flipped me over a curb. Do you think I need stitches?” “What’s your name?” I asked. “Vivienne,” she said. (I’m basically writing Bernice a novel, aren’t I, Amy? God I feel bad about that theater thing. I just want to bring her back to liking me.) “Vivienne, I’m Michael,” I said. And she said “Hi, Michael,” so casually. At that age, many people would stumble on my name or just forget and call me “Michelle,” perhaps out of meanness, or just ignorance because I looked more feminine then. I had gotten so used to that little pause every time a stranger said my name to me for the first time, so I was taken aback when Vivienne said “Hi Michael,” with no hesitation, looking right into my eyes. “You’re going to be just fine,” I said touching her fingers. “But you need some soap and water and a bandage or two.” I didn’t want to let go of those bloodied hands. I wanted to take hers in mine, and walk her into the deli, let her wash up, and buy her a phosphate. But she said, “My girlfriend’s waiting for me up the street, Michael. I should go.” She pulled her hands away gently and turned to jog up the street. I said “Wait. Vivienne.” And she did. And I didn’t know what to say. I forgot how to talk to a woman. I forgot I needed a bicycle. I forgot the English language. “You’re blushing Michael,” she said. And that made me blush more. I wanted to ask her to further define what she meant by ‘girlfriend.’ “You don’t have to be nervous. Ask me whatever you want,” she said. “Um...” I said. That’s exactly what I said: “Um.” “Yes. It’s fine. You can have the bike,” she said. “I’m done with that thing. Good luck.” and she left. I didn’t know where she lived, what she did. I assumed I wouldn’t see her again, because I could only say “Um.” I fixed the bike. It took me a month because I’d never fixed a bike before. I had to borrow neighbors’ tools and find books on bike repair. But I got it working, and it was a terrible bicycle but much better than walking. I fell a lot in the first few weeks, because in addition to never repairing a bike, I had also never ridden one. About a year later, my boss at the time sent me to get flowers for some important client’s birthday. I rode to a flower shop on my bike - by this point I had repainted it and put on fresh white wall tires, and even a little crate behind the seat for groceries and packages. I didn’t know much about flowers, so I rang the bell on the desk to talk to the florist. As I heard the fading chime I began to smell butter, black pepper, molasses. It overtook the rose and musk of the rest of the shop, and I saw Vivi arrive at the register, an armful of yellow lilac stems. “Vivienne,” I said. “Yes,” she said. She didn’t recognize me. So I told her about my boss’s boss’s birthday, and she recommended carnations and baby’s breath. It was the end of tulip season, but she had a few left. Perhaps an orchid - simple yet divine. Or… I then asked what she was holding, what smelled so good “Lilacs,” she said. “I thought the word lilac meant purple,” I said. “A yellow lilac is like a blue orange.” She laughed and said yellow lilacs were rare. These she grew herself in her own garden. They were her favorite because of the smell. I said “I remember the one you wore when we met.” She studied my face, and I said I want to show you something. I led her outside to show her what I had done with her old bicycle. That I had turned that pile of shit into something truly beautiful. That I had taught myself bike repair and maintenance. Somehow that I was worthy of love because I demonstrated the effort I could put into love. Vivi stood shocked. I thought she might cry at the sight of this bike. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Michael. Thank you.” I was confused. I said “Um” again but more of a question this time. “You fixed my bike!” she said, hugging my neck. “Yes,” I said. “I fixed your bike.” And I let her have the bike. I walked back to work, with a bundle of yellow lilacs for my some client, and a date with Vivienne Torrance the next night. Vivienne tells people that she was only kidding and even told me so that day, telling me “No no it’s your bike. Take it.” But that I was insistent she take it. Memory’s a capricious thing. She might be right, but that’s not how I remember it. My story is better anyway. Thought you might like to hear that one. Vivi sends her love. We hope to see you and Miguel again soon, Bernice. Best wishes, Michael PS: The insemination was finally processed last month, so she’ll look at bit different when you see her next. She’s quite excited about her new career as a child-bearer. Getting licensed to take on such an important role in our world’s repopulation is such an honor. Plus, I have to say, it pays quite well. Category:Transcripts